Scars
by Athena Alexandria
Summary: "He wondered how long she'd been sitting there, alone, in the dark, and if she was finding sleep as elusive as he was." Rick and Andrea take comfort in each other after a horrifying encounter with another group of survivors. Contains spoilers for Volume 11: Fear the Hunters.


_Since most Rick/Andrea fans seem to be fans of the comic as well I've taken a few liberties from later volumes, so be warned, this story contains potential spoilers for future story lines. It's based on the events of the 'Fear the Hunters' arc (which for those of you who don't read the comics takes place some time after they leave the prison), although I made a few adjustments to fit the continuity of the show._

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SCARS

Rick lay with his hands folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of Glenn's thunderous snoring further down the aisle. It was a mystery to him, how the younger man could sleep so soundly knowing the dangers that lurked beyond the walls of the church they had holed up in for the night.

Judging by the stillness that had descended over the group, punctuated only by Glenn's snores and the occasional sigh or rustle of fabric as someone shifted in their sleep, Rick was the only one still awake. Even Michonne seemed to have succumbed to her exhaustion, despite her usuall nocturnal tendencies.

He glanced over at Judith – barely a year old and already a target for all the sick people that thrived in this world –, and was relieved to see that his daughter was still dozing peacefully, bundled up in his jacket on the floor between him and Carl, mercifully oblivious to the ordeal she had suffered earlier that day.

If only he could say the same for himself.

He was still too unsettled to sleep, so he decided to get up and check the perimeter for what he was sure must be the hundredth time that night in the hopes that it would help him find some much needed peace.

Daryl had drawn the first shift; Rick nodded to him when he spotted him up in the belltower, crossbow at the ready, and the other man nodded in return before melting back into the shadows.

Once he was satisfied that there was no immediate threat to the group's safety, Rick holstered his gun and let himself back into the church.

Bolting the door behind him, he started up the dim aisle where the others were sleeping, freezing when, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a solitary figure in the front row. His hand moved instinctively back to his weapon until he recognised the familiar blonde head, bowed as though in silent prayer.

He hadn't noticed her before; he wondered how long she'd been sitting there, alone, in the dark, and if she was finding sleep as elusive as he was.

Intrigued, he decided that they could probably both use some company, bypassing the rest of the group and making his way to the front of the church instead.

"I never figured you for the religious type," he told her when he was close enough to speak without the risk of disturbing anyone.

"I'm not," she agreed without lifting her head. She swiped the back of her hand over her eyes, sniffling softly, and it occurred to him that she must have been crying until she heard him approach. "I just thought my soul could do with a little cleansing tonight."

He didn't have to ask why when his own soul felt dirty, tainted by the latest in the seemingly never-ending string of horrific deeds he'd perpetrated in the name of keeping the people he loved safe.

"You're still thinking about what happened back there," he said, sliding into the pew beside her.

He could feel the warmth radiating from her where their sides almost touched; a profound sense of longing stirred inside him as he tried to imagine what it would be like to take her in his arms and hold her, as much for his own comfort as for hers. It was a long time since he'd shared physical contact with anyone except his children, and lately, as they'd begun spending more time together, he'd found himself looking at her in a whole different light…

He willed himself to get a grip. The woman was clearly upset. What she needed right now was a friend, not some randy, sex-starved guy putting the moves on her.

She nodded, expelling a heavy breath. "What we did to those people, Rick…" She squeezed her eyes shut, as though by doing so, she could somehow stop the flow of images flooding her brain.

He wasn't proud of the actions the four of them, including Daryl and Michonne, had taken either – how could he be? –, but it had to be done, for the good not just of the group, but humanity as a whole.

"Those people were animals," he reminded her. "They ate their own children. They were gonna do the same to Judy, and Beth. We couldn't let them live." How could he rest knowing that the people who tried to hurt his child were still out there? How could any of them rest while monsters like that shared the same air?

"I wanted them dead too, Rick," she assured him, her gaze settling on the stained glass windows at the front of the church, "but that wasn't an execution, that was a massacre. We butchered them in cold blood."

It was the first time either of them had killed an unarmed man, but he doubted that it would be the last.

"It was no more than what they deserved," he insisted. It might not have been a fair fight, but it was a just one: at least that was what he kept telling himself.

"Even though I know you're right," she allowed, "today was the first time I was actually glad Amy isn't around to see what I've become."

She turned to study his reaction, and for the first time since he sat down, he had a clear view of the angry pink scar that now marked her pretty face: a permanent reminder of how much putting your faith in the wrong people could cost you in this harsh new world.

"We've all done things we wish we didn't have to," he told her, his mind flashing briefly on the night he put a knife in his best friend's heart. It wasn't much of a consolation, but it was the truth. "I've lost count of the number of men I've killed."

The smile she gave him was bitter. "Me too. How did we get here, to this point where murdering someone is our only option?" she asked him and he knew she was thinking of the whole Randall debacle and how reluctant they were to do just that.

As he considered his answer, he found his eyes drifting back to her scar; when she realised what he was staring at, her expression hardened and she tried to duck her head, but he reached over and cupped her jaw tenderly in his palm, forcing her to look up at him.

"We didn't arrive here on our own," he reminded her. "We were driven, by people like them. People who meant to do us harm."

On impulse, he traced the jagged line lightly with his thumb, from the torn earlobe that she would never decorate with nice earrings again, across the hollow beneath her high cheekbone, all the way to the corner of her mouth. He knew she hated it, thought it made her ugly, but to him, it was proof of how strong she was, how much she'd survived, only to come back fighting.

Even though experience told him it was only a matter of time before she joined Amy and Lori and Shane and Dale and all of the other people they'd lost since their days in Atlanta, he found it hard it imagine the thing that would take her down. She was what his father would have called a 'firecracker', a pistol, a force of nature unto herself; in his mind, he envisioned her outliving them all through the sheer power of her indomitable will.

It was the thing he had always admired most about her, even before he really got to know her.

"You don't have to tell me how dangerous it is out there," she agreed. Her eyes filled with fresh tears. "God, I was such a fool, Rick. I should have seen it earlier. Michonne did. There were signs – I just didn't want to believe it."

If he was completely honest with himself, he deserved a share of the blame for her brief excursion to Woodbury since he was the one who convinced the others she wasn't worth going back for. If he hadn't, and she stayed with the group, Merle wouldn't have come looking for Daryl, and they might still all be back at the prison, building the life they'd only just begun to dream about before they were forced to move on.

"The way I see it, your only crime was wanting to believe that there's still good in people – in this world," he told her gently. "That's something we've all been guilty of at one time or another."

Any one of them might have chosen to drink the Governor's Kool-Aid if given the chance. Never again, though – wasn't that what today's little adventure had been about?

"The important thing is that you're alive, and because of you, so is everyone else here," he reminded her. She had been an invaluable source of information on Woodbury and the threat it posed. "You risked your life coming to see us. That's something I won't soon forget."

He would never forget the night, not long after he'd first discovered that she was still alive, that she showed up at the prison, bleeding and dogged by walkers, seeking refuge. Hershel had sewn her up as best he could but he wasn't used to such delicate work, and so while the wound on her face had healed without any significant muscle or nerve damage, he hadn't been able to prevent it from scarring.

She never told Rick what happened – flat out refused to discuss it whenever he tried to broach the subject with her –, but he knew it had something to do with the Governor because any loyalty she had left towards him had dissolved after that, replaced with a steely hatred, making her a formidable member of their team.

"Still, if I could take back everything before that, I would," she insisted. She let out a tearful laugh, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm. "I shot at you. I could have killed you, or Daryl..."

"I'd like to take back a lot of things," he told her, ignoring her self-flagellation, "but it is what it is. No amount of wishing can change that." There was no sense in dwelling on the past, filled with ghosts as it was. "You're a good woman, Andrea. One of the best."

He wasn't sure how it happened, but somehow, she'd become his rock: unlike the others, she stood up to him whenever she thought he was wrong, and soothed his conscience in those dark moments when he began to question his decisions himself.

She glanced up at him with a smile – a real one this time –, her pale curls glowing like a halo in the moonlight, and he noted sadly how rare it was to see her happy these days.

Maybe because it was so rare, he thought, that smile was one of the most beautiful things he'd seen in recent memory.

"You're not such a bad guy yourself," she teased him with trademark wryness.

His hand was still on her cheek; he ran the pad of his thumb experimentally over her lower lip. He felt her breath hitch and she parted them in response, her blue eyes flicking uncertainly down to his own lips before locking resolutely on his.

Hoping that he was reading the signals right, he tilted her chin up slightly to give himself a better angle and lent in, his courage rewarded when she arched up to meet him, pressing her mouth softly into his.

It wasn't a long kiss, or an overtly passionate one – they were too tired and broken for that tonight – but it was enough to fill his heart with something he hadn't felt in the longest time: joy, and maybe even a little hope for the future.

Maybe they would both die tomorrow, and none of it would matter anymore, or maybe, just maybe, they would be all right.


End file.
